Home
by ArthurDent2
Summary: {AU where John and Sherlock meet earlier, and John is in Afghanistan. Established relationship.} Sherlock misses John terribly, but of course does not show it. The Yard, upon finding out that Sherlock has a 'boyfriend' abroad, does not believe him, not that he cares.
1. Longing

**A/N: Hi there, you. Nice to see you again or perhaps, if this is your first time here, nice to meet you. I really should be writing for one of my three on going stories... but this idea wouldn't leave me alone. Also, the reason I have not been very active lately, is because school is busy, mostly, but also because I have been writing a soulmate!fic. It is long and complicated, and probably won't be out (first chapter) for ages, for which i apologise. Any who..**

**ENJOY! :D**

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"John, this is truly a poor substitute."

"Sherlock, this is the best your gonna get. Just be happy that Mycroft helped us at all. You're lucky enough as it is, if you didn't have such 'connections' then we wouldn't even be able to talk to each other right now," John reasoned. Sherlock pouted a bit, but ignored the part about his brother.

"It still isn't… good," he grumbled.

"Well, obviously not," John smiled at Sherlock's childish mood, "It just isn't the same, you voice, over Skype. Gives it no justice." If Sherlock was with him, or perhaps if he could just reach through the screen and touch him, John would have nudged him jokingly. His elbow twitched unconsciously at the thought.

Sherlock gave a smug smile, but John could see the sadness behind it. He knew him long enough to know exactly what he was thinking.

"Oh, don't worry, Sherlock, I'll be fine," he reassured, waving it off as if he was being silly. It was easier this way.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I am perfectly aware of the statistics of your safety. I merely wish for your return. Everything has turned incredibly dull. There hasn't even been a decent murder since you've left. All love affairs and insurance claims. Boring."

"Oh, right, of course. Is that your twisted Sherlockian way of saying 'I miss you'?" John teased.

Sherlock mouth formed a tight line. "Perhaps."

"I have been gone for _one_ month. I'm sure something interesting will come up."

"Are you trying to imply that one month is not a substantial amount of time apart to miss you? Anyway, one month just means five more until you come back. That is hardly a reassurance."

"Oh, sod off, you know what I mean. _I miss you too._"

"John-" Suddenly there was a rustling and muffle voices in the background, and John turned, being addressed by someone out of frame for Sherlock. John nodded once and then returned his attention back to his computer.

"Sorry, Sherlock, I have to go. Duty calls."

"If you must," Sherlock grumbled.

John smiled lovingly and then reached into the collar of his shirt, pulling out his concealed dog tags. Attached to the steel chain was an oddly out of place golden band. He curled it around one finger, and looking into the camera, brought it to his lips. Sherlock did the same, coping John's motions with eased practice, removing his chain from its hiding place under his buttoned up shirt, and quickly pressing it to his mouth.

"Good bye, Sherlock."

"Good bye, John."

"I love you."

"I love you."

John gave him one last almost longing look, then reached towards the camera and shut the computer, leaving Sherlock to stare at a black picture. A long beep rang out and the call was ended. He sighed and closed his laptop in return. He sat there very still for what could have been seconds or minutes, he didn't know. From an outside view, he looked in thought but mostly indifferent, but it was far from what he was feeling inside. He didn't know why he kept his façade, even alone, but it was somehow easier, even if it would hurt more sometimes. Then, he stood slowly, and picked up his empty teacup, admiring it for a moment, twisting it around in his hands, a soft yellow coloured, simple mug. It was nothing special to look at, but Sherlock used it everyday; it was John's. He contemplated putting it away for a moment, but his thoughts quickly turned away and swirled and twisted into something completely different. He was calm, yet, even now, his mind raced, and he set the cup back down, forgetting about the dishes completely, as if dazed.

Sherlock strolled to the kitchen, passing and giving a quick look to an old framed photo. He smiled but then bitterly thought: _Sentiment, ugh._ He knew it was not true though; it was just easier, even if it would hurt more sometimes. He continued to his bedroom, but then, hand hovering on the handle, his gaze turned to the stairs, and he found his feet moving towards them, his mind not completely aware at first. He climbed the stairs to reach a short hallway, that lead to a single door. He did not stop at the door, but instead swung it open and stepped inside. He knew that if he hesitated he would convince himself out of it.

It was a simple small room with no decorations in particular, only queen-sized bed to the side, accompanied by a side table and a desk and closet on the two adjacent cream coloured walls.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Sherlock took in the scent of the room. The air was stale, for neither the door nor window had been all but cracked in a month, yet the room smelt what Sherlock could only describe as home. Warm and cozy, like woolen sweaters and tea, but musky like a man. This was John's room.

Of course John never slept here. They would always sleep in Sherlock's room, but wanting his own private place and not to mention closet space (Sherlock had many a suits), John had claimed the extra bedroom upstairs and it had become, now was, irreversibly _John's room_. Sherlock could almost feel his absence more now, in the place that reminded him most of him, that smelt of him. He realised that he had standing there, taking the room in, for far too long to be normal, not that it really mattered though, and crossed, in what only took two strides, the small space to the closet.

His hand carefully curled around the thin handle and with a slow, drawn out movement, he opened the closet door. Inside there was a collection of sweaters, button up shirts, cardigans and jeans. Sherlock scanned all of them with his scrutiny filled eyes, before picking out a soft beige jumper. He examined it with a soft gaze, running his hands through the warm, though a bit itchy, woolen material. Then, setting it down on the desk chair nearby, he began to undo the buttons on his tight, off-white, dress shirt. Shrugging the shirt off his shoulders, into a silk puddle on the floor, revealing his pale chest. Sherlock grabbed the jumper off its place on the chair, and gingerly removed it from the wiry hanger's hold, careful not to pull or stretch the material. Once free from its grasp, Sherlock took it and pulled it over his own head, shrugging his arms into the sleeves. It fit oddly on him. I was altogether too wide for his willowy figure, and hung awkwardly on his shoulders; it was also too short for his long torso, and a sliver of his stomach could be seen above his trousers. Sherlock did not care. He hugged himself, feeling the rough texture and appreciating its warmth. It felt of John, and like everything else in this room, had his scent.

After a moment, he turned and walked to the bedside. Then, slipping off his shoes, he peeled back the tightly made, neat, bed sheets. He lay down on the hard mattress and pulled the cover back over himself, and wrapped it all around him. It was cozy and peaceful; it almost felt as if he was wrapped up in John himself. The room was dark, as he had never turned the lights on in entering, but a dull stream of moonlight emitting from the window dimly lit the room. He brought his knees up to his chest and clutched the blankets tighter.

He did not sleep that night.

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**A/N: So, there you go. Next chapter will be less... depressing. Love all of you, darlings! If you feel to do so, please review, follow, etc. (what? I'm totally not one of those people who beg for stuf...) Okay, I would say I'm in a weird mood to explain why I am acting like this, but I think I use that excuse too much... Maybe I'm just like this all the time, and I don't realise until I write these author's notes... 0_o**


	2. Slipping

**A/N: What? Chapter 2 so soon? Yes. I know it has been literally 8 hours since I posted the first chapter, but I just got really into writing this! :)**

**Also, HOLY MOTHER OF SWEET JESUS, YOU GUYS. This is the quickest response I've ever had to a story ever. I mean woah guys, you are awesome. I already have 21 follows?! And all of your lovely reviews! Aghghaskldj. You, you are awesome, whoever is reading this right now. I LOVE YOU. (not in a creepy internet way, but in a super awesome fanfic bonding way)**

**Anways, here is the next chapter for you! ENJOY! :D**

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Sherlock strode with hurried purpose, as he entered the crime scene, pulling up the yellow tape and ducking beneath it. He passed Sally, who said something, he didn't know what, he wasn't listening, perhaps she'd called him freak, or maybe she'd been kinder and just snarkily greeted him as Sherlock, or maybe she wasn't addressing him at all and was talking to someone else. It hardly mattered. What mattered was the job.

Lestrade had called him three times, without answer. Sherlock had been talking to John, so obviously he ignored them, but Lestrade texted him the location anyway, and after the call with John had been ended but only when John absolutely had to leave, Sherlock had rushed to get a cab. He needed the distraction as soon as possible. This case happened to be a particularly messy double homicide in a small apartment complex that was currently under construction. He doubted it would be a very difficult murder to solve, but it was better than nothing.

The walls of the crime scene were covered in blood, not even spattered, but it looked as if someone had _painted_ it on in swirling patterns. Oh, a serial killer, maybe this would be more fascinating than he'd originally expected. Yes, it was definitely a serial killer, or at least the beginning of one. There was a message written, also in blood, on the floor beside the two mangled bodies, which said, 'Next time won't be as humane,' yet Sherlock knew it was only their first kill, not only because of the blindingly obvious hint in the message, but the entire sloppiness of the job. Footprints for one thing, the killer had left footprints, and that always helped to find the culprit, shoe size, approximate height, shoe in general. Not only had they let footprints though, there was obvious signs of lack of struggle on the victims, meaning that the killer knew them and had possible drugged them, then taken them here and killed them in their sleep. Not as exciting really though, is it? The victims also fingernail marks on their body, but they were clearly not their own, judging by the angle and pressure marks, so the killer was not wearing gloves, and there would be fingerprints everywhere, simple really. Sherlock could already feel himself becoming bored again.

This all happened in the few seconds that passed before Lestrade turned to see Sherlock in the doorway.

"Sherlock, were the bloody hell have you been?" Lestrade demanded, "I called you two hours ago, with no response and now you just _show up_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and breezily said, "I was otherwise preoccupied. I came as soon as time aloud me."

"Really? Preoccupied with what exactly?" Lestrade inquired, clearly not believing him.

Sherlock could have easily lied then, but for some reason he found himself saying, "Not that it is any of your concern, but I was talking to John."

The DI's brows knitted, and his eyes narrowed, "Who is John?"

Oh, Sherlock had not been expecting that. He had forgotten that he didn't know about John. That was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! No one at the Yard knew about John, not even Lestrade. How could he forget that? He was losing his touch. Ha, no of course he wasn't, that was ridiculous, but either way he still felt utterly dim in that moment.

To avoid confrontation, instead of explaining exactly who John was, Sherlock countered, "Come on, you know who John is." He waved his arm dismissively, and walked towards the pair of bodies. He crouched down and took out his small magnifying glass out of his coat pocket, sliding the little black rectangle open, and examining the corpses more closely.

"No, I don't know who John is. You've never mentioned any John before," Lestrade paused, "Why would I know him? Who is he? A client?"

Sherlock couldn't help but snort, John was the farthest thing he had from a client. Now he was only egging Lestrade on. Why was he doing that? Surely, he didn't want any of the Yards to know about John. John had accepted that when Sherlock had first started the help them solve crimes that they couldn't solve themselves. Perhaps Sherlock wanted them to know about John though. He had been working with Lestrade for several months now, and he had never talked about John, and John had never visited or joined him during a case. Sherlock thought he had preferred it that way, keeping John safe from them. Yet, even though Sherlock did not like to admit even it to himself, especially out loud, because that would definitely never happen, it hurt a bit when Sally or whatever the other's names were called him freak or said he had no friends. Granted, Sherlock didn't have friends, but he had one, John. Well, actually he was a bit more than a friend, but that didn't matter, it only proved his point more strongly. He almost wished, every time that Sally or Anderson said something about him being alone, he could just always retaliate that he had John, but John, John had to be protected from them. They didn't have the privilege of knowing about John, meeting him. Yet, now he found himself so close to exposing him to everyone. He was just getting tired. It was so tempting.

"No, John is not a client."

"Wait… who could he be then, if he's not a client? Who else-" Lestrade stopped, realizing what he sounded like, "Oh, I don't-"

"No, you do," Sherlock spat back, now turned to face him, standing from his crouch on the ground. He all but towered over Lestrade and hissed, "Who could John possibly be, if he's not a client or a criminal? Sherlock doesn't have friends, so who the hell is John? Well, I'll have you know that John is my _husband_." He couldn't stop. He'd said it. No taking it back now. He cursed himself inwardly, but he was too annoyed, even angry, so fed up, that he only appeared that way.

Lestrade's face had turned completely blank. He didn't even look confused or shocked; it was like his brain just short-circuited. After several moments, Lestrade somewhat composed himself, somewhat.

"I- you- but…" he spluttered, but then shook his head and squeak out a, "But you don't wear a wedding ring."

Sherlock sighed irritated, and pulled out the necklace from underneath his shirt, revealing the gold band.

"But- you- I've never seen- never even heard- Where is he? Why are you wearing it around your neck?"

Sherlock sighed again but complied. "John is in Afghanistan. To avoid easily losing it in battle, he put his ring on his dog tags, so in return I've worn mine around my neck."

"You- you never told that me you were married! How long have you been _married_?" Lestrade suddenly burst out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "I've been in a _civil partnership_ since before I knew you, Lestrade, and I never told you because I never thought my private life any of your business."

Lestrade took another moment to stare blankly at him, before letting out a bitter laugh. "That is rich, coming from you, of all people."

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"You spend your whole life deducing other people and _their_ private lives, then exposing them to everyone else, and then you say you don't understand how your private life is any of my business!"

"That is my job, Lestrade, or would you rather I stopped helping you?" Sherlock snapped back.

"And what about all those other times that you aren't on a case?"

"Habit," Sherlock muttered.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure," Lestrade replied sarcastically.

Sherlock lips tightened in a thin line, and he curtly asked, "Would you like me to tell you who the murder is or not?"

Lestrade's face went blank again. "You already know? I haven't even told you anything."

"Of course, this is careless work. It was obvious since the moment I walked in."

Sherlock went on in length to explain to Lestrade exactly who the murder was in relation to the victims and told him to get his team back up there and check for fingerprints on the bodies and footprints. It only took a few hours to catch the killer, and he was quickly and efficiently arrested, thanks to Sherlock.

Soon rumors had spread around the whole Yard though, and to Sherlock's dismay, everyone knew about John. That, of course, did not mean that everyone believed in him though. I mean, who could ever love Sherlock Holmes, much less want to _marry _him?

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**A/N: Oh snap. Yes, yes I did do that. And yes, there will be some serious Sally sass times. You just wait and see...**

***hands cookies to each of you wonderful, wonderful people individually***


	3. Waiting

**A/N: Hello everybody! :) A new instalment, just for you! Hooray! Any who, I am deeply sorry if there are any mistakes here, I was correcting this in a half conscious state, so I might have possibly missed some things. I don't think I have... but you know, sleep deprivation, it** **does stuff to you. :P**

**ENJOY! :D**

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"A _husband_?" Sally asked in disbelief, "He hasn't even got any friends, and now suddenly he's married, and to a _man_?"

"He said that he was married before we knew him," Lestrade countered.

"Blood hell, who ever want to marry that freak? I mean what kind of person… He must be just as loony. I bet he's just like him. If he even exists. Where is he? I mean, if he is real, why haven't we ever seen him?"

"Apparently he's in that army." Lestrade shrugged.

"Ha, figures," Sally snorted.

"What?"

"Well, of course, now that makes a bit more sense. Some people join the army to serve their country, some do it to honor their families, some do it to just feel that they are doing something for the world, and _some_ do it for their own psychotic, selfish reasons. What kind of person do you think the freak's tied down?"

"Oh, come on Sally, don't be so harsh," Lestrade said, he was getting tired of this constant banter.

Sally ignored him. "What did you say his name was again?"

"John."

"John? That is an easily made up name, don't you think?" Sally questioned, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"Even if that was true, this is _Sherlock_ we are talking about. He wouldn't do something so obvious."

"Or would he? Maybe he's just trying to trick us _by_ being simple!"

"Now you're just being ridiculous." Sally huffed indignantly. "Anyway, why would he lie about being married, for god's sakes? Also, he did have a ring…"

"Oh, come off it, he could have easily have bought any old ring, or stolen one. You don't know. Also, he was wearing it around his neck, which is a supposedly good excuse for why we never saw it, which means we don't even have proof that it was there before! I say that as long as we can't see this John fellow, he isn't real. Sherlock is just making it all up. He has to be. I mean really, him _married_?"

{***}

Now it had been a few months since Sherlock had slipped up and the Yard had found out about John. At first there were many sneers and jokes shared around, for no one really believed he existed, which Sherlock really should have expected, and he ignored them, but in reality it hurt. It hurt more than whenever they called him freak or psychopath, because now they weren't just taunting him, which he was used to, they were making fun of John, which was not acceptable. John was exactly what people like them looked for in a person, honest, kind, brave, level-headed, handsome, funny, and now they taking John away from him, claiming he was not real, the one good thing he had to be proud of: his brave soldier. Rumors and shared mockeries had died down since then though, but he could still feel the speculations, so, excluding the first time, he never mentioned John's name again, not to any of the Yard.

John was due to come home in one month, just one more month. Then he and John would have two blissful weeks together, and Sherlock would not take any cases. He would spend everyone moment with John, if it was only to just watch him make tea and sleep. His heart clenched in anticipation every time he thought of it, but no matter how excited he was for John's return, he knew it would be short lasting. The weeks would pass by too quickly and then John would leave him again, and then he'd have to wait an entire _year_ before John returned again. The mere thought made him want to crawl up in John's bed and sweater again, and just lay there for hours, something he had refrained from doing since the first time, because no matter how much it might feel better in the moment, it only made him miss his lover more.

In the next month of waiting, Sherlock continued to act as normal as possible, quickly and efficiently solving cases and never speaking of John. Lestrade of course never asked after the first time, and pretended as well as he could that it had never happened, bless him. Of course it was blindingly obvious what he was thinking though. Two days before John was set to arrive, Sherlock went to inform Lestrade that he would be on a two-week leave of absence, and that no one was to disturb him, not even for a level 10 case.

"Not even then, do you understand? And no checking up on me either," Sherlock clarified.

"Uh, yeah, okay, but why are you…" Lestrade's eyes dropped to Sherlock's fingers that were unconsciously twisting something that was underneath his shirt, through the fabric. Sherlock, realising what he was doing, suddenly stopped and gave Lestrade a very cold look.

"Oh, shut up," He snarled.

"I didn't say anything," Lestrade protested, putting his hands up in defense.

"Good bye, Lestrade," he said frostily, sharply turning away, "Oh, and if you even contact me, I _will_ tell the whole Yard about your old gambling addiction," he threatened lowly, so that only Lestrade could hear, as he walked away.

"Jesus," Lestrade muttered under his breath, as he watched Sherlock brisk away, trench coat billowing after him and all. That man was a strange one.

{***}

Sherlock spent the rest of that day and the next, anxiously tidying up and removing body parts and various experiments from the eating area in anticipation of John's visit, but he only made a larger mess, trying to set everything out. 'Things always get worse before they get better', Sherlock repeatedly thought to himself. It was a ridiculous and inaccurate quote in many ways, but it was comforting, and in this particular case, was true. Sherlock did not sleep, of course, so he worked through the night, and was finished by around eleven o'clock in the morning. The flat was a clean as it was going to get.

There was still twenty-one hours and nineteen minutes of waiting to go. Every second felt like a minute, time dragging out at an impossibly long pace. It was utterly infuriating. He couldn't take; he just couldn't take the waiting. No case, no John, for god's sakes he couldn't even shoot at the wall (Mrs. Hudson had very explicitly forbade it). Then an idea struck him. It was granted not a brilliant idea, but it was better than this accursed _waiting_. People normally would sleep at times like this would they not? It would pass the time more quickly, even if by just a few hours.

Sherlock did not like sleeping, it was not something that came easily to him, which irked him because normally things did, excluding social skills, but that was a choice. The act of sleeping itself was not boring, as it was impossible to be bored in an unconscious state, but it was the falling asleep that always got him. It was ridiculous; you just had to lie there, doing nothing, it was dull, utterly dull, but if you tried to make it interesting you would just not fall asleep. It was so difficult to just turn his mind off too, to calm down his thoughts enough to just _go to sleep_. His mind constantly raced, all the time, it was not something he could simply turn off. But if it meant that he could possibly not need to wait as long for John, he might as well try.

He stopped pacing, which he hadn't realised he was doing until then, and followed in the direction where his room was. He stripped down to his pants and grabbed a tattered nightgown from his closet, pulling it onto his thin body. His bed was already in shambles, as he never bothered to make it, John used to do that. Grabbing a random edge of the duvet, he climbed onto the mattress and pulled it over him. The pillow that his head rest on was not right; it did feel _right_. He shuffled around, disturbing his otherwise comfortable positioning, trying to fix the pillow beneath him. He fluffed it, punched it, turned it over, but it just wouldn't cooperate with him. This was starting to annoy him. He spun over, hitting the pillow and placing in various places under his head, neck, even chin. This is why he did not like sleeping. Everything was wrong. Everything was just _wrong_. What was it the blankets? Where they too rough? Too soft? Was it the bed itself? He just didn't understand. He knew what it was, he just did not like to think of it. He knew exactly what was wrong, or more like exactly what was missing. The lack of heat radiating from neighboring body, the dip of the mattress, the rise and fall of another's chest; it all felt empty with out it. He could feel his absence as keenly as he would his presence, like he could hear the loud silence he left behind him. There was no soft snore, or low muttering in dreaming next to him.

After scrambling about for a while longer, Sherlock finally gave up and just stayed still, comfortable be damned. He stayed that way for a long time, trying to lull himself into oblivion. It wasn't working. For the second time that day, he gave up. He threw the bed covers off of him, and quickly exited the room. He spent the next few hours passively aggressively playing the violin.

Fifteen hours and thirty-six minutes. Just fifteen hours and thirty-six minutes more.

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**A/N: I am terribly sorry, but you'll just have to wait a little longer for the meeting, won't you. ;) mwahahahaha! **

**I hope that all you people found that reading my story was a pleasurable experience, and I would like to thank you all for you overwhelming amount of support! Ahhhh, I love you guys, my little happy nuggets (yes, yes I did just call you a nugget, but only in an endearing way, and in no way offensive). Of course, overwhelming, in a positive way... No need to, uh, ****_stop_****. ;)**

**Until next time :)**


	4. Hurting

**A/N: Howdy there. No sorry I won't say that again. That was not... good.**

**THAT IS UNIMPORTANT THOUGH. What is important is that I have bestowed upon you lovely, lovely readers, a new chapter. *merrily skips around throwing petals enthusiastically* **

**Enjoy!:D**

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He woke with a start, a sharp intake of breath; he suddenly pushed up into a sitting position, panting hard. It- it… He frantically looked around him, his head spinning in confusion and panic. A shaky sigh of relief resonated from his throat. It was only a dream.

Then, realising the warmth next to him, he turned to look at the slack, dreaming body facing away from him. They were okay. They were safe. They were home. Everything was going to be all right.

Relaxing, he let himself fall back, propping up his elbow on his pillow. He carefully reached out a hand to smooth back some stray blonde hairs on his lover's head, then leaned forwards the gently press his lips to the other's forehead. The body shifted in sleep, muttering in low tones. He smiled to himself and leaned back down onto his side and wrapped his arm around the dreaming figure, nuzzling his head into their back. His eyes drooped with fatigue and his heart slowed. Everything was going to be all right.

{***}

As Sherlock predicted, the two weeks passed too quickly, much too quickly. It was filled with hurried kisses and staying in watching old movies together on the couch. Normally Sherlock would find such activities boring, but he didn't find it remotely so. Time with John was precious, it didn't even matter what they were doing, as long as he was just with him. He rarely left John's side, refusing to miss any opportunity to be close to him. They spent their last day together in bed, just holding each other, muttering sweet nothings and trying not to think about the harsh year to come.

The ride to the airport was a silent one. As soon as John's figure disappeared behind the corner, where Sherlock could not follow any longer, he could already feel the weight in his chest being to settle in again.

{***}

"Oi, Freak's here!" Sally called to Lestrade. Sherlock ignored her. They walked awkwardly together to the entrance of the crime scene. "So, where have you been anyways, Freak? Two whole weeks?"

Sherlock continued to disregard her, the only sign that he had heard being a small, exasperated sigh.

"Can't imagine what you'd do with two whole weeks without this. It'd drive you mad, I bet. You don't only get off on this, _you need it_." Sherlock acknowledged her then, but only to shoot a chilling glare, but Sally wasn't looking. "I mean what could be more important to you than _this_, it's not like you have anything else to do."

At this point they were close enough that Lestrade could hear. He promptly walked to them, and said, "Sally, I'm sure Sherlock has many things to do or people to see outside of this." The look that Sherlock gave Lestrade then was one that even made the DI want to cower. Of course he didn't, but it had the effect at the same.

Sally stopped, just then comprehending what Lestrade had accidentally implied. "Oh, oh no." She turned to Sherlock again. She had had enough of this, she was fed up, just _fed up_ and could not stop the next words from tumbling out. "You've got to be kidding me. What, did your _husband_ come back from his little war? For god's sakes Sherlock, he doesn't exist! He isn't real! You aren't fooling anyone! Stop pretending that you have anyone, now it's just getting ridiculous!"

Now most of the people around them were silent, watching. The three focal points of the attention ignored them though. Sherlock's face did not loose the composure of it's hard look, but Sally, just for one second, swore she had heard a little whimper come him. Obviously it hadn't, it was so quiet and was gone so fast too, she must have imagined it. It's not like the freak had feelings anyway.

"Sally," Lestrade said sternly, and then through gritted teeth he all but hissed, "I need to show you something for the case. Would mind if we talked over there would you?" Then he walked off, clearly expecting Sally to follow. She did. Sherlock stood, unmoving, and not breaking his silence since arriving on the scene. For a brief moment he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, then he returned to his usual ways and strode off to the body, all the while loudly complaining about how dull/idiotic everyone was. It was easier to pretend.

It still hurt though.

{***}

"Unprofessional, irresponsible, unkind," Lestrade listed off, "You cannot do stuff like that, Sally."

"But I know he-" she protested.

"I don't care. You know what? I don't bloody care. You are to treat Sherlock like a colleague, consultant, whatever you'd like to call it, and I've put up with you two bickering and throwing insults, but _this_, this is crossing the line. I don't care if he is a complete arsehole to you; you aren't a gleaming example of human compassion right now. That was unprovoked and unnecessary. That did nothing but hurt him, _don't give me that look_, and make you look like a raving idiot. I'm not going to ask you to apologise, because I know that would be unfair of me to do, and frankly it wouldn't do much help for either of you, but I don't want to hear one more word about this. Do you understand?"

Sally looked like a stubborn child being told off, crossing her arms defiantly, yet agreeing in a grumbled, "Fine."

And so it was, John was never mentioned in any crime scenes by any Yarders or any consulting detectives from then on. A silent agreement formed, an understanding that was not to be broken, at least not until a few months later where such a thing could no longer be feasible. Not when something completely impossible happened.

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**A/N: DUN DUN DUN. Oh no, what will happen? Ha, only I know this! Well, for now I do, soon you shall all understand... soon. **

**There is something deeply wrong with me. I like to think myself quirky, not in the bad way, when I leave these truly odd author notes, but really I think I might just be freaking you guys out. Hopefully not. :P**

**Chapter 5 will be out shortly! Stick with me and you'll go far (into this story and figure out how it ends). ;)**

**Yep, there is definitely something wrong with me.**

**Oh yeah, and don't be mad at me. I know all of you guys thought there would be a reunion of some kind in this chapter... but yeah, no. Don't worry my way is cooler. It is all planned out very elaborately and awesomely and yeah, please don't kill me...**


	5. Ending

**A/N: And here it is... the final instalment of this little story. I'll just leave you to read it then... **

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It had been four months since John's visit. Only eight more months to go, then Sherlock would see him again. The wait had only begun, yet it felt as though it had been years already.

At that moment Sherlock stood over a blue and bruised body, trying to discern anything he could about the victim, the killer, and the murder in general. It was a fairly regular day. His thoughts were trailing to John again though. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly for any outsiders, and returned his concentration to the corpse at his feet.

{***}

Sally had been stuck with the lame job of controlling the entrance of the crime scene. This was her least favorite part of the job, excluding dealing with the freak. All she did was just stand at the yellow tape, stopping civilians from entering and checking cops' identification.

Someone began to approach her; it was a civilian. _Fabulous_. He was wearing a sweater, which was almost odd for a man with his stance but it also strangely suited him, and an old pair of dark jeans, with light brown army boots, and, to top it all of, a cane to support his weight. What did he want? She hated when civilians asked what was going on. She had to pretend to be polite and reassuring. It was going to be doubly as hard considering the mood she was currently in.

"Excuse me?" the man said, "I-"

"Sorry, sir, but this is a crime scene, I can't allow you to enter," Sally interrupted.

"Oh, I know, but I am here to see Sherlock Holmes. I was told he was here. It is very urgent."

Oh great, this was the freak's doing.

She groaned a little bit, annoyed. "How urgent?"

"Very," he answered earnestly.

Frowning, she said, "Well, I'm sorry but I don't know what to tell you, I can't just let you in." She shrugged.

Then the man sighed as if he was saying 'I really didn't want to have to do this,' and he pulled out a paper from his back pocket and handed it to her. She gave him a quizzical but took it. Her eyes widened as she saw what it was. It was complete clearance to enter, and not just _this_ crime scene, but _any_ crime scene.

"Uh, oh, okay. Yes, just follow me then, Mister…?"

"Doctor," he corrected, "Dr. Watson."

She lifted up the tape and he ducked underneath it, joining her.

"Okay then, Dr. Watson. Just this way, but don't touch anything."

He nodded in response. "Thank you."

They walked in silence, and a bit awkwardly, together, towards he building where Sherlock was deducing crap, or what ever he claimed to do. What did this man what with Sherlock, though? He was obviously not a government official, he had a tough sort of look, perhaps he was army, he certainly could be, but that absolutely did not give him that sort of easy clearance.

Before Sally could talk herself out of it, she daringly asked, "So, what do you want with Sherlock Holmes?"

The man chuckled and then said, "I'm not sure you'd believe me." He left it at that, but then he began to unconsciously play with something underneath the collar of his shirt. He suddenly realised and stopped. Sally gave him a questioning look.

"Oh, yeah, dog tags. Just got back from service. Nervous habit," he explained.

Hold on, something sounded familiar about that… She did not ask anything further, but something was definitely… well, off about this man. He was very normal, just a regular bloke, really, your average man, you might even say, but something was just _off_. Something that was just tugging at the edge of her mind, but she couldn't think what.

They finally found their way to where Sherlock stood, his back to them. He was intently studying a body. Sally furrowed her brows when she saw the huge smile that broke across the doctor's face.

She didn't know if Sherlock had suddenly sensed them, or what, but just then he stopped, inclining his head a bit to the side, like he had heard something familiar. He slowly turned towards them. Upon seeing Dr. Watson, his face changed to an expression of confusion and shock, with a hint of delight. He completely ignored Sally.

The two men looked at each other for a moment, eyes locked. Sherlock whispered something then, mostly to himself, something so quiet that Sally could almost not hear.

She thought for a moment that she had heard him say, "John," but that was- oh. Wait, no. No. _No. _That wasn't- no, it couldn't- it wasn't….

The doctor's eyes were intense, but he had, what could only be described as, a stupid grin planted on his face. Then, Sherlock's eyes quickly scanned over all of the other man, deducing him. An expression that Sally had never seen Sherlock have before, took over his face, one of worry and concern.

"You've been shot," he said quietly, and then his gaze flew back up to the other man's eyes and he burst, "You've been shot!"

The doctor's smile faded a bit, and he rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, "Yeah, I was, uh, honorably discharged." Sherlock continued to stare at him. "So, I, uh, won't be going back…"

Sherlock rushed forwards and stood inches away from the doctor, but for some reason did not dare to touch him. His eyes searched the other's face and all but pleaded.

"John, I…" he began uncertainly.

"Oh, shut up, you berk," John breathed.

He grabbed a handful of the front of Sherlock's shirt and roughly pulled him down to his height, into a bruising kiss.

Everyone, at the same moment, stopped what they were doing. The entire Yard went silent.

Sherlock made a small muffled sound of surprise, but then closed his eyes and leaned into John, wrapping his hands around his waist, kissing him back. They eventually pulled apart, after who knew how long. It seemed like time had stopped, for everyone.

Sherlock was now grinning, in turn, like an idiot, well as much as you could imagine Sherlock looking like one. It was really more of a regular smile, but Sherlock's were so rare and he looked so happy, that is the only way it could be described.

John only then realised that they had an audience, and in fact that everyone was watching them. He turned beet red with embarrassment, which only made Sherlock's smile more.

No one said anything. Sherlock was staring at John, and John at the floor, and everyone else at the two. Finally Sally broke the silence with a strangled, "You're real…"

John turned to look at her with a puzzled expression, his face fading back into its original tan colour. "Well, of course I'm real. What is that even supposed to mean?"

"I- I just never thought that… and you seem so normal… and we didn't actually believe that Freak really had a- a…" Sally began.

"Excuse me?" John interrupted.

Sally was a bit flustered. "Wh-what?"

"Don't call him that."

"Sorry?"

"Don't call Sherlock a freak."

Sherlock was back to his regular composure but there was still trace of a smile on his lips, "John, it's fine. I-"

John spun around on Sherlock, a face of incredulity. "No, it's not bloody fine!" The he turned back to Sally, took a few steps towards her, until they were nose to nose. "You say freak with a sense of familiarity, like you didn't realize that you'd called him that, it was just an automatic response. You call him Freak often, then. It's probably all you call him." Sally's eyes widened, she was clearly not expecting John to share some of Sherlock's deductive skills. "_And you didn't believe that I existed? _ What does that even mean? What kind of person are you? Because let me tell you, I certainly _do_ exist and Sherlock Holmes is _not_ a freak." Sherlock stared at John is disbelief and all the Yarders continued in their state of shock. "Now," John said, walking back to Sherlock, grasping one of his hands in his, "My _husband_ and I are going to go home. Good bye." With that, John led Sherlock away. They walked together, hands still intertwined and once they were far enough away, burst into a fit of giggles.

The Yard remained silent, gawking after the two figures. Lestrade walked up from behind Sally, who was still dazed, and announced, satisfied, "I like him."

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**A/N: AND IT'S DONE. Aw man, I really loved writing that. I hope you enjoyed that at least half as much as I did. Thank you so much for all your support, this was by far one of my most successful stories, which honestly really surprised me. Like, for reals. You guys nearly gave me a heart attack, I mean over ****_80_**** follows, Jesus. You are all wonderful and thank you for sharing this experience with me, or if you've only just read this after it's been all finished, I thank you for reading it anyways. You guys are amazing. :)**

**Farewell, dear readers. **


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